


Starved

by Anonymous



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 2x08 dabble, Bittersweet, F/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:49:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26540152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33
Collections: Anonymous





	Starved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salzrand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salzrand/gifts).



Her fingers place themselves on his tanned cheek and for a moment he thinks he must be dreaming.

_She would not do such a thing._

_She_ , who not too long ago lashed his soul with her tongue, not once, nor twice, but five times, each word leaving her mouth carving away a little piece of him, _"And you are too familiar."_

It was his fault, he knew. Not long before the lashing he had allowed himself to speak freely, had let his eyes become the mirror reflecting his soul and she had seen inside. 

It had frightened her and he wished for nothing more than to pull the words back into his mouth.

He could not.

But Daenery's fingers slowly caress the meat of his face and Jorah is not a man of faith, but he feels the warmth of the Lord of Light enveloping him and the blessings of both the Old and the New Gods falling upon him. 

_Touch,_ the word births and dies inside his head. Touch, that _thing_ that only children and women crave. Men want no such thing, they want the wet, warm feel of a woman's cunt or mouth wrapped around their cock. And he is a man!

Yet, he craves _touch_.

Craves and longs and yearns so deeply for the gentle touch of a woman's hand against his cheek.

The brush of fingers over his arm.

The slow, gentle weaving of their fingers together.

Her arms around him.

Her body pressed against his.

Her cheek on his chest, her fingers in his hair...

Not just any woman's, not one that does it for coins, but one that truly cares for him.

_Daenerys._

He is a fool, but not a big enough one to think that she cares for him.

Yet... for a moment, just one moment, he can fool himself further, he can close his eyes and lean into her palm and pretend that he _is_ loved by her and she is his and only his.

He does no such thing. His eyes are caught in her spell, he can not move them from hers, and now her fingers lightly press against the base of his neck and the lobe of his left ear and he would give the little he has and all that he is to have time slow its relentless pour. 

Time stops for no man, and he finds himself happy for it, and for his eyes never leaving hers. 

Her violet drops from his blue to linger on the pink of his mouth and now he is sure he is dreaming, or worse. 

_Maybe I am dead,_ he thinks, _maybe the vultures are picking at my bones in the Red Waste._

Daenery's nails gently scrape against his beard as she traces the contours of his jaw and for a moment, Jorah truly tries to remember when he might have died and forgotten or fallen asleep without realizing, for he can see no reason why she would gift him such a treasure. 

And then he feels her fingers drop from his face and sees the hopeful look in her eyes and he has his answer.

 _Of course,_ the revelation is as bitter as a winter's night. He is but a puppet, a toy.

He had been kilt hardened clay, but under her touch, he had melted and she had molded him with delicate fingers and soft touches. This freshly molded Jorah would do what she wished, now and always.

Jorah nods, agreeing to give her what she wants, her children. 

He knows her marks will never leave him, he knows he will do her bidding until the day he takes his last breath, but the ghost of her fingers will stay too, and he can sustain himself on memories. 


End file.
